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Cavernous craters in the road made the small car lurch like an unsteady carnival ride; the gaping crater of dread in Elizabeth’s stomach widened with each bump. The thought of going to first period made the black pavement ahead seem white, a murky pearl of concrete continuing to swirl. Her legs shook so badly she resembled a recovering addict; her left foot tapped the black carpet of her Toyota while the right foot attempted to press the gas at a steady pace. “Asleep” played faintly through the car radio speakers, and the soft morning light shone through her car windows, revealing dull violet circles under weary green eyes.
The weight of the oncoming school day bore
in her, but here, the sadness became unbearable. She ached for the soothing comfort of home, her real home, where her friends loved her, and she loved them. She longed for the pale blue tile hallways of her Dallas school, not the beige matted carpet hallways of her new one. School used to be her lofty refuge, but here it was her sinking abyss. She pulled into the school parking lot slowly, her fingers clutching the wheel in a white- knuckled grip.
Elizabeth pulled the sun visor down and checked her reflection. Shaky fingers smeared Shape Tape concealer over bleary raccoon eyes and warm blotchy cheeks. Her eyes remained bloodshot and red-rimmed,
down on shoulders far too weak to withstand it, and soon hot breathless tears overcame her compliant body. The car swerved to the side of the road with a wheezing screech; the tire marks left behind would later exist as a glorious symbol to Elizabeth. Her body rocked back and forth, a small ship in a tumultuous, frightening
“...the idea of escape from the place she called prison existed as a marble pillar in the palace of euphoria.”
but there was nothing to be done. She got out of the car and slung her backpack over her shoulder, like a sacrificial lamb accepting its fate.
“Honey darlings, sit down now, and let’s begin this fabulous day, why don’t we now!” Her teacher proclaimed this in a high pitched, aspartame sing-song voice.
Blistering, Burning
Gracie Rowland
Honorable Mention—Short Story Competition
sea. The oncoming waves were boiling and merciless; they blistered and burned her skin. The water rose and fell with every stammering gasp, and the ship began to sink. The heat of the car suffocated her like a pillow on a patient; who knew a Toyota could produce such fiery flames. Hell itself could not imitate the damning destitution felt in that vehicle. She frantically rolled down the windows; the freezing temperature outside was a small penance to pay for the liberating freedom of wind.
Elizabeth sat back and breathed. In and out. In and out. Four-eight-four-eight rhythm, just like she had learned. An unsteady hand fumbled for the volume adjuster, and soon, The Smiths were the only voice
in her head. Just one year of living in Mississippi had turned her mind into a creature of despair and anxiety. Elizabeth had always been a sad person; her mind and memories would never allow true happiness to abide
The pit in her stomach transformed into a canyon, swallowing and all-consuming. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead in an ominous, almost threatening melancholy, and the smell of Clorox wipes permeated the cramped room. The nauseating mixture of bleach and cheap perfume seared her lungs to a tormented terror every time she breathed in. She was about to faint, about to fall.
“Mrs. Mortem, may I be excused?” Elizabeth spoke with authority; the need of release from those dreaded gray cinder blocks became dire. She walked
to the bathroom and splashed water on her white face. The mirror in front of her glared back, watching every move. Her limbs looked too foreign to be hers, and her thoughts seemed to float. The breakdown resulted from a buildup, not a collision.
“Wait a minute,” she whispered. I can leave. I can leave!” she practically yelled this time, smiling
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